


The Forty-First Year (Reimagined)

by strangeandcharm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Whump, Dean's Birthday, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandcharm/pseuds/strangeandcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because there were forty crappy ones in Hell, the forty-first had to be better, didn’t it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Forty-First Year (Reimagined)

**Author's Note:**

> Contains whump, fluff, schmoop and star-gazing. Set somewhere vague at the start of season five, I guess. 
> 
> (Originally posted 20 September 2009 on LiveJournal.)

~ ~ ~

 

It’s not like Dean has anything else to do. It’s not like there’s anything _special_ about today or anything. He’s had a chat with Sam, Bobby called, and now he’s sitting behind the wheel of his baby and squinting into the sun and wondering if the Impala could take that Ferrari up ahead if he floored it right now and caught the driver by surprise. He’s half-tempted to do it, too, but his cell rings just as his ankle muscles tense and he stops himself with a frustrated sigh.

It’s Castiel, which is a nice surprise because it’s been nearly four weeks and Dean was starting to think the angel had been caught by his dickwad brothers or something similarly ominous.

“I’m on Route 66,” he tells him, before Castiel can say more than his name. “But I can assure you I’m not gettin’ any kicks. There’s a truck stop coming up, so I can meet you there.”

“I don’t need to know where you are,” Castiel tells him, and is Dean imagining it or does he sound _hoarse_? “You need to find me.”

“Why, are you lost?”

“No. I’m confined.”

Dean frowns into the sunlight. “Cas, what’s going–”

But Castiel cuts him off, reading him an address somewhere in the next state and hanging up without another word. Dean stares down at his cell for a few moments, puzzled, not liking the prickly feeling playing about the back of his neck. Castiel disappears for weeks and then calls to say he’s _confined_? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

He pulls off the highway at the truck stop and studies a map.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It’s an ordinary house in an ordinary street and Dean waits an extra hour for darkness to fall before he approaches it, not wanting to be seen carrying a shotgun to the door. He has a bad feeling about this. He doesn’t think Castiel would lure him into a trap willingly, but he could have been forced. He’d sounded weird on the phone, as though he was under pressure or something, and Dean can’t help but think the worst. But it never occurred to him for a second to ignore the call – Castiel asked him to come, and Dean came. It’s hard to argue with a guy who’s saved your ass more times than you could ever hope to save his.

The door’s ajar, which is _so_ not a good sign. Dean stares through the gap into darkness and pushes it open slowly. It doesn’t creak, and he’s perfectly silent as he steps into the hallway, but Castiel hears him anyway.

“In here,” he calls, and there’s no mistaking the fact his voice sounds raw and shredded. “Hurry, Dean!”

Dean doesn’t hurry. He pokes his head into the room containing the angel and aims his shotgun, barely able to see a thing but determined not to be taken by surprise if there’s anything in there that isn’t Castiel. He can see furniture pushed to the walls, clearing an open space in the center of the room, and Castiel is standing in the middle of it, hidden by shadows. Dean opens his mouth to speak but the angel cuts him off.

“Break the line,” he hisses, pointing with a hand Dean can only dimly see in the gloom. “I can’t leave until you break it.”

Dean can see faint lines crisscrossing the wooden floorboards; they shine wetly, and he can smell blood. It doesn’t take much imagination to put the two facts together. “What is this?” he asks.

“A trap for angels,” Castiel informs him hurriedly. “Dean, just do it! We need to get out of here in case they’re watching. I think they left but I can’t take the chance.”

Dean doesn’t ask ‘who’; he can tell Castiel’s serious about getting out of there. He slides a shoe through the line nearest him. The effect is instantaneous: a crackle buzzes around the room and Castiel steps forward. A hand hits his shoulder…

…and they’re in a forest lit with the golden glow of a setting sun, a small stream bubbling merrily beside them as a flurry of birds squawk and fly away at their sudden appearance. Dean looks around him in shock, thinking they have to be on the west coast because they’re a few hours behind and he’s already seen a sunset further east. After that he has no more time to think because Castiel’s legs buckle underneath him and Dean barely manages to catch him under the arms before he hits the ground.

He lowers him down gently, shocked when the angel cries out in pain as his knees are lowered to the pine-needle-strewn earth. Dean opens his mouth to ask the obvious question, but now he can see him properly he already knows the answer – Castiel is not okay. There’s blood patterning his face, red ribbons of it trailing down his cheek from his hairline and all the way down his neck, staining his collar scarlet. He’s not wearing his coat and there’s blood all over his shirt from a collection of vicious slashes to his chest. Dean watches as Castiel cradles his arm and bends his head in what can only be pain, and all of this is wrong, really wrong, because he’s never seen the angel in pain before.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, worry and shock making his voice as deep as gravel. Strangely, he sounds just like his father.

“The angels wanted your location,” Castiel says gruffly, and closes his eyes. When he doesn’t say anything else, Dean crouches beside him.

“They tortured you?”

Castiel’s chest rises and falls, as though he’s steeling himself to speak. “Not as much as they could have. They decided to wait for you to rescue me instead.”

Dean shakes his head, feeling his heartbeat speed up. “For me to… But I just did that, and they didn’t grab me.”

“They gave up.” Castiel’s voice is bitter. He opens his eyes again and motions for Dean to help him move towards a nearby tree. Dean lifts him awkwardly by the waist, trying not to brush any of the wounds with his fingers, and settles him down against the trunk, kneeling beside him as Castiel leans his head back on the bark and blinks up at the branches. His adam’s apple rises and falls before he swallows and says, “They must have decided that if you didn’t show up after a month, perhaps you weren’t coming at all.”

“But that makes no sense,” Dean protests. “I wouldn’t have known where you were if you hadn’t called me today. How did they expect me to come rushing to your rescue if I didn’t even know you were in trouble?”

“They tried to make me speak to you so you’d tell me where you were. I refused. After that, one of them impersonated me, leaving a message on your voicemail to say where I was. I managed to stop the call going through. The trap wasn’t quite as powerful as they thought it was.” Castiel’s eyes narrow. “It’s lucky I did stop it. You came here without a second thought. That cannot be allowed to happen again. This could so easily have been a trap.”

“We’ll work out some sort of password,” Dean offers, knowing he’s right.

“They thought the message had reached you,” Castiel continues, wincing as he moves his right arm. “They waited and waited, but you didn’t appear. Three days ago they left. I called you as soon as I was sure they were really gone.”

Dean looks down at Castiel’s arm. It’s clearly broken, probably in more than one place. He’s pale and, now that Dean’s studying him closely, he can see that he’s trembling and coated in sweat. “You just spent a whole _month_ sitting in that trap in this state?” he asks, feeling a little sick.

Castiel closes his eyes again, his head resting on the tree. “It drained me,” he admits. “I will need an hour or two to recover.”

Despite himself, Dean snorts. “Only an hour or two? Your arm’s in pieces, Cas, and you look like a hellhound went medieval on your chest.”

“That’s why it will take me so long,” Castiel declares bluntly, totally missing Dean’s sarcasm. “They are bad injuries, and I am compromised.”

Dean falls silent. He stares as Castiel sits unmoving at the base of the tree, his eyes closed and his mouth shut tight. He looks as though he’s concentrating hard on healing this body that doesn’t even belong to him; his forehead is creased and he’s breathing too quickly. Dean wants to help, but there’s nothing he can do, so he just sits quietly and thinks.

Castiel spent weeks like this, all because he wouldn’t tell the angels were Dean was.

Dean’s not sure how to go about saying _thank you_ for something like that, but he tries. “Hey, Cas?”

Castiel’s eyes flutter open and he stares at him. He looks tired.

“Thanks,” Dean says, placing a hand on his companion’s knee; as far as he knows, his knees are the only part of him that don’t hurt. Castiel’s eyes flick down to his fingers and then back up to his face. His mouth twitches in what could possibly be a smile, and then his eyes fall shut again and he leans back against the tree.

Dean squeezes his knee before dropping his hand. He looks around him at the forest; there’s a lot of it, and he hasn’t heard a single sound yet that hints of civilization – no cars or planes or music. They’re miles from anywhere and the sun’s starting to descend in the sky, making the red bark of the trees glow like fire. An eagle is calling somewhere high above them and he can hear squirrels chittering at each other in the treetops above his head. It’s beautiful, but Dean can only think of one thing right now.

“Cas, when you’re better, you _are_ gonna go back and get my car, aren’t you?”

Castiel doesn’t deign to answer him.

 

~ ~ ~

 

As darkness falls around him for the second time that evening, Dean rests his back against a tree and stares at Castiel in the light from the newly risen moon. The angel hasn’t moved an inch in over an hour. His expression hasn’t relaxed at all; he’s still frowning slightly, his features tense and pained. Dean’s wanted to start a conversation several times over now, but doesn’t feel comfortable disturbing him. He’s bored out of his mind but there’s nothing he can do except wait, so he waits.

After a while he pulls out his cell and thinks about calling Sam, who’s probably still awake somewhere in Chicago, but discovers he has no signal. Still, he’s already spoken to him once today. Wouldn’t do to drive the poor kid mad. He stares at his cell in resigned misery and puts it back in his pocket.

Today really hasn’t turned out the way he’d have liked it to. Then again, when did it ever?

“We are safe here,” Castiel says suddenly, startling Dean so much his heart almost leaps out of his ribcage. He looks across at him and sees Castiel’s eyes are open.

“That’s good,” Dean replies, collecting himself. “I assumed we were anyway, though.”

“You seem restless. I thought you were worried.”

Dean chuckles, scratching at his jaw. “Yeah, well. Maybe less of the ‘worried’ and more of the ‘bored’.”

Castiel falls silent, but he continues to stare. Dean’s never liked that stare. It’s as if the angel can see right through him and out the other side, cutting through the piles of bullshit and bravado to the Dean that lies below. It’s freaky. He stares back, then frowns as he realizes something. “Hey, you’re shivering.”

Castiel looks down, shifting his legs on the ground. “As I said earlier, the trap weakened me.”

Dean gets to his feet and stretches. It’s getting colder without the sun, but it’s not too cold for him to take his coat off and drape it over Castiel’s body. He feels a little foolish as he does so – hell, it’s not as though Castiel _needs_ outerwear – but the look he receives in return is both surprised and grateful.

“Thank you,” Castiel says. “That will help.”

“So how far away are you from healing yourself? You said a couple of hours.”

“It’s proving more difficult than I expected.” Castiel makes a sound that’s almost a sigh, but not quite. “We won’t be here all night, however. I’m sure of it.”

“Well, that’s good news.” Dean sits back on the dry earth and sniffs. He looks at his watch – eight o’clock. He could be in a bar right now, getting pleasantly obliterated and looking for some company for the evening. Somehow, though, he doesn’t really feel like celebrating today.

“You should sleep,” Castiel informs him, and his voice almost sounds concerned. “It will help the time pass.”

“Naw,” Dean returns, with a grin he’s not sure Castiel can see in the gloom. “It’s too early for me, especially now we’re on PST. I’ll keep you company. Do you feel up to talking, or do you have to concentrate to heal yourself? Is it like some kind of Vulcan mind-over-matter thing, or more like using the Force?”

Castiel is quiet for a moment. “It’s just… me,” he says at last, sounding a little puzzled.

“Right,” Dean nods, hiding a smile because Castiel really doesn’t have a clue what Dean’s talking about half the time, and his cluelessness amuses him. “So, what did our delightful angel friends have to say while you were with them? What have they been up to?”

“They said nothing. All they wanted to know was where you were.”

Dean thinks about what would happen if Zachariah managed to get hold of him and shudders. “I’m quite happy to remain incognito, thanks.”

A silence falls, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. Dean stares up through the branches at the stars, marvelling at how many he can see. It never fails to amaze him that there are so many of them, once you get away from towns and cities and actually bother to tilt your head to _look_.

“Is Heaven up there?” he asks quietly.

Castiel looks up too. “In a sense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not really anywhere. But it’s everywhere, too. It’s difficult to explain.”

Dean shakes his head. “You are one cryptic sonofabitch, you know that?”

“I try my best.”

Castiel’s response is deadpan, and, as ever, Dean doesn’t have a clue if he’s joking or not. He sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “Okay, so if Heaven’s everywhere but nowhere, where the hell is Hell?”

“The same.”

“So why do we look up at Heaven and down at Hell if they’re technically all over the place?”

Castiel pauses for a moment, thinking. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But don’t you prefer the thought of Heaven sitting among the stars?”

Dean nods. Good point. He looks up again in time to spot a meteor burning up on the horizon, then lets out a breath and announces: “It’s my birthday today.”

“Oh.” Castiel waits for a beat, then says slowly, “Happy birthday, Dean.”

“I’d have thought you’d have known that, what with your superpowers ‘n’ all.” Dean can’t resist teasing him. “A card would’ve been nice. Something rude, preferably featuring a naked babe. And a cake. Something with lots of marzipan.”

“If I hadn’t spent the last month sitting inside a bloody sigil I’m sure I would have baked one especially,” Castiel points out dryly.

Dean smiles. “I’m sure you’d make a perfect cake, Cas. Soft and light with cream in the middle. I can just picture you in an apron.”

“I’m afraid baking is not something I have studied too intently,” Castiel says, and the words come out with such seriousness that Dean laughs out loud at the ridiculousness of the thought. Then it hits him that the words sounded different because Castiel’s sore throat has gone, and he glances over at him triumphantly.

“You sound better.”

“I feel better. I will be fully healed very soon.”

“It didn’t take all night after all, just like you said.”

“No.” Castiel moves a little under Dean’s coat. “I’m sorry I ruined your birthday, Dean.”

Dean snorts and shakes his head. “What, seriously? You think sitting in a forest with you for a couple of hours is a _bad_ birthday? I lived through forty birthdays in Hell, Cas. This one’s been awesome.”

Castiel seems to consider his words before replying, “But you’re not with your brother.”

Dean shrugs. “I spoke to him, though. He’s fine. He emailed me some excellent porn URLs instead of getting me a present.”

“That was… uh, nice of him.”

Castiel’s hesitation makes Dean’s smile broaden. “I take it angels don’t have birthdays?” he asks.

“We celebrate nothing except for the Lord,” Castiel replies, with a touch of pride.

“Right, right.” Dean thinks for a moment. “Do you celebrate Christmas? That’s the biggest birthday of all.”

“Christmas isn’t the true date of the Son’s birth.”

“Yeah, I know. We picked it from nowhere because nobody was kind enough to make a note of it in the Bible. When was He really born, then?”

Unexpectedly, Castiel huffs out a wry laugh. “January the twenty-fourth.”

Dean blinks at him in surprise. “Oh,” he says. “Really? _Today?_ Well, uh… I guess you should bake a cake for Him before you start on mine. He’s a little more important.”

“I don’t think He would be particularly interested in marzipan.” Castiel lifts Dean’s coat from his chest with both hands and holds it out to him. “Thank you. I have no need of it now.”

Dean pulls it on. It smells of Castiel, which is weird, because he’d never noticed he had a smell before. He’s not quite sure what it is, but it’s nice. “How’s the arm?” he asks.

Castiel holds it out and stretches. He clenches his fist a few times and then climbs to his feet. The moonlight strikes his chest and there’s not a drop of blood anywhere; his shirt is clean and whole, as though nothing had even happened.

“I’m healed,” Castiel declares with what seems like an excess of relief. “Where would you like me to take you?”

Dean stands up, brushing pine needles from his legs. “Back to the car.”

“Too dangerous. The angels will know I’ve escaped by now. I will fetch your vehicle for you.”

Dean has a mental image of Castiel lifting the car with one hand and flying through the air with it. “Uh, okay. Thanks. I guess you can just drop me outside any motel and I’ll book a room while I wait for you.”

“That sounds wise.” Castiel looks around them at the forest before fixing his gaze on Dean. “It’s peaceful here. I like it.”

“Hey, you did say Heaven is everywhere.” Dean shrugs. “Guess we found a corner of it.”

Castiel’s expression hardens. “If we do not find a way to stop Lucifer, this place will cease to exist.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah, thanks for the reminder. Way to harsh my birthday glee, man.”

Castiel’s hand brushes his arm, and heaven is left behind.

 

~ ~ ~

 

There’s nothing special about the motel; it’s an identikit version of a million others Dean’s stayed in over the years, and it’s only after he’s checked in and is standing in the shower that it occurs to him that he doesn’t even know where it is. Whatever: it’s a long way from the angels, and that’s all that matters. He trusts Castiel to have brought him somewhere safe. He trusts Castiel to look after him more than ever now.

He washes off the scent of pine needles and dirt and stares at himself in the mirror for a while, wiping a hand through the steam on the glass. He looks tired. Run down. He hasn’t been sleeping much and he can’t remember the last healthy meal he ate. Plus he’s a year older than he was: age catches up with you.

He tries to forget the fact he’s actually forty years older than he thinks he is, and towels his hair dry roughly.

When Dean walks back into the room the first thing he sees is the cake sitting on his bed. It’s shaped like a teddy bear with colorful marzipan all over it, bright and obnoxious against the already bright and obnoxious bedspread. It’s possibly the dumbest cake he’s ever seen, and he’s already laughing as he rips open the envelope of the card lying beside it on the mattress.

There isn’t a naked babe on the front of the card; instead there’s a kitten. Inside it says, “Happy birthday. This was the only cake I could find that contained marzipan. I do not bake.”

It isn’t signed, but it’s clear who it’s from. Dean laughs some more as he stares at the fluffy kitten, trying to picture Castiel walking into a store and lingering in front of the rude cards before losing his nerve and going for cute instead. He bends over and peels off the marzipan that makes up the teddy bear’s bowtie, chewing on a corner of it thoughtfully. It tastes great. Better than no cake at all, which was what he’d been expecting.

“What, no candles?” he says to the empty room, but he’s pretty sure Castiel can’t hear him.

Still chewing, he goes to the window and looks for his car, but he can’t see it. Castiel was here – didn’t he bring the Impala with him? Suddenly worried, Dean pulls on some jeans and opens the door, padding into the parking lot in his bare feet, wincing at the coldness of the tarmac. He stares around, panic growing… and there she is, tucked under a streetlight, safe and sound.

“Cas, you _rock,_ ” he observes happily, and turns back to the room.

His brother is standing behind him, looking absolutely flummoxed.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam asks, shock warring with the pleased surprise on his face.

Dean gapes at him, stunned. “I’m… I’m in Chicago?”

“Where did you think you were?” Sam frowns and then his eyebrows rise up. “Cas brought you here, didn’t he? For your birthday?”

“Sonofabitch,” Dean breathes, as it all falls into place. “That’s exactly what he did.”

Sam grins so broadly it’s almost scary. “That’s pretty cool. Happy birthday, man.”

Dean reaches out and draws Sam into a hug that his brother returns with gusto. “Sonofabitch,” he says again, as Sam laughs in his ear. “I guess this is one birthday that doesn’t suck after all.”

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, I know _technically_ it's not the 41st one, but just overlook that, m'kay? *cough*

 

~


End file.
